The Void Is Thusly Filled

Slow moving poetry. Halogen lightning. Freedom is bass influenced, the protracted footfalls of going nowhere in particular. Freedom is crafting the perfect line and walking it in your most comfortable footwear. Meteors on the glass. Immersing yourself in the baritone of Summer’s last rites. The unimagined, half-remembered past that lines the street. The repetitious, favored words of the digital dead. A million flags will mark momentary change in status. This doesn’t last forever.

Tom Wolfe Misquoted

Greetings From Camp Clever -

Whether or not you hold court or teach clown college, you are convinced your path is the correct one. Wherever you go, your advice is priceless and your actions are tenable. Every relationship has it's share of the truth and the divine right to change metaphors mid publication.

The choice of no choice, of aimless drift and lazy self destruction is obviously the worst sin of all. We are only defined by our jobs if we enjoy them.

And this is what I have. The sand of time lost stuck in socks and unworn shoes. While the wake for the past is ever ongoing, the present unfolds with much aplomb as we compare anecdotes and shots both cheap and plentiful. Nobody ever put a gun loaded with adjectives to their temple much as nobody ever overdoses on self righteousness. It's the good advice you just can't take, and not because irony is the currency of the underpaid and overly entitled. The biological imperative implores as not to raise children who aren't ours and not to accept advice that we haven't expelled spent from our rich interesting lives. The trash piles and the proof sinks.

An analyst in nurse's clothing

You are so terrible at keeping in touch. So I'll leave this with a memory. I want to smoke cigarettes and listen to Regina Spektor with you in this quiet snow shower. Resume your busy life.

Every night before I go to bed, I make lists of whatever I learned or created and try to arrange not only a meaning, but a subtext. Austerity suits me in life, but in letters I think in terms of a buffet. Whether or not I even desire it, the lighting and environment demand some stacks.

I've become quite interested in biographies, which I feel is some subtle cue that I am growing past fiction, or that fiction is somehow juvenile. I miss fiction, but lately I find myself only reading biographies and anthologies of poems or short stories. It's a gross kind of pretension that seems fitting with my new job. People may not be able to spell or pronounce ciabatta or baguette, but they can put them away like nobody's business. Like so many... er creative? types, I feel ill-suited towards labor. Perhaps it is the general interaction; so far everyone at my new job, like so many before them, have tried to impart a lesson in insincerity re: public interaction. My formal politeness is somehow more hostile than shrilly exclaiming at their every utterance.

I havent been writing much, just happily devouring book after book. I've neglected Netflix and any attempt to court someone in favor of a chaise lounge and iPod. Post-modern Oscar Wilde is ready for the gallows.

Hot and Fresh

Usually when I am in the mood to combine blood and ink into a parable of past transgressions, I make a mask. I make a character that thinks my thoughts, but is not me. Right now I am too lazy to write. This is a journal session, which I hate to do because it's not fun. It's life, it's black and white and it is really boring.

While grinding my coffee, I was thinking about a strange phantom emotional limb to mourn. The limb of the insincere friend. The shiny background to a life of parties. One more person to ash in the guacamole or pilfer the refreshing taste of confessional headache. As one ages in a proper and dignified fashion, these people become fewer and fewer in the aperture of a life well intentioned. These days, when down, people who actually care about you give you carte blanche to mope or purge the blackness of concentrated, personalized villainy. Instead of worrying about boring someone, I worry that they worry about my tendency to say things like "oh, don't worry about me killing myself. That is a lot of work, a lot of recuperation and given the state of my life I can't plan a day, much less a death." I havent even written that great book of pointless tired venom yet. And we all know it will go up in consumptive value once we see the author couldn't wear a glitterball tux with their tranny date or couldn't cope with the idea that this it.

The coffee is done and the room is dark. These books beckon me into their insular reprieves from mundane hurts and trivial desire.

Welcome back.

Something of Import

I was going to write a critique of the American obsession with vigilante justice and situational morality and neat story arches that allow you to free fall into your own value system, but then I started watching TeeVee. That was a joke, that last part, but seriously, I was. The deadly sins don't stop at seven. You can hang yourself from the flagpole with your pride waving in the breeze. The imprinting, the patterning, the genuine desire to become who you have always wanted. What is the actual difference between changing yourself and hiding behind a self-made mask. The cool math boy scene without a single female voice. I suppose muses don't understand copyright laws. The desire is always greater when fueled by failures of the past. These vectors of memory lurking in someone else's detritus. We're all dumpster diving for clarity, dusting off the poor little rich boy mythos of our prophets and poster-children grown up and discarded. Going through the cracked and weary spines of our underlined atheistic dogma that took root in academia and followed us into "the real world". "Abandon all hope" amended to "Ride it Out".

I just want to write a story about the salesmen of the apocalypse. I want to use the stories I've heard, the themes I've loved to build something I can be proud of. I dont like to delve too deeply in this format, out loud in the swirling electronic graveyard. But I suppose whispering to a void is better than talking to myself. I talk to you to tell you about the people who inspire me in their own indulgent ways. The select phrases repeated, your catch (and release) phrases, the fazes of the moon. Whoever gets the most stage runs the risk of the bad review. The hurt lingers far beyond the wisdom of overpriced tea bags. Your faith in the future sustains me. The desire to never stop: traveling, smoking, drinking, learning, moving. It is kind of reassuring to know that we can live a fairy tale, we just have to be prepared for the costume changes. It's kind of a one man show.

Spirit Animals

Revisionist historians pulling the strings, the melody struck a chord. Finding happiness in the sandbox along the temporal fold. This is the only city I have been able to walk at night with a beer without meeting a soul. A phone, an IPA, an empty playground... no not an indie movie preview starring a Culkin. My evening was a nice end to several days worth of ruminating. The reading, the writing, the reformation.

Hopefully the salient points will remain like bones at a crime scene or shells at the beach. You inspired me a few nights ago. Just basic stuff about a chance meeting improving quality of life and realizing being an adult means acting with knowledge available. Above all, trying not to hold your teenage ideals against yourself. Realizing that dusting yourself off is more admirable than flogging yourself into crippling impotency. I love you. One day I may articulate that further.

I will judge myself on the context of my characters. I am writing something of interest, but then I have to throw in a line like "fucking you with a sentimentality dildo".

I probably should have gotten a tumblr a while ago. But I like this. It's like notebook I can actually read later.

The emperor was found dead of (over)exposure. Impossible glamour of ecstatic (enlightened) extinction, future antiques in action. Nothing will weep for you but your wounds. as the shadows fill the room, i realize i have offered up another day to nothing. the surreal quiet was the only company present. the sentiment is mine, the sentiment is fleeting; but the words are universal and familiar. the authors who went the way of the warrior with their words, leaving their contempt face down a puddle of ink.

Memoirists who think their lines and bon mots are worth more than the forest it was printed on. You say growth I say cancer. An insubstantial blurb placed in between ads for used cars and coupons, that's where we all end up. You know that we all need those things, or someone does. The obituary equalizes a lifetime of inequity. Put the salvation on your tongue and wait for oblivion. It doesnt mean anything if the world doesnt end. The blood is just another stain if it doesnt transfigure you out. But oblivion is playing cards with Godot. your experience leaves you empty. bullet trains, cherry blossoms, lonely adjectives rotting flowers. Of all the hardrives in all the landfills of the world. The streets filled with Dickensian orphans who are sustained by their stories. They were named after saints, but that's where the similarities end.